Play My Game
by Ancalyme
Summary: A failed attempt to kill the Boy Who Lived has unforseen consequences. SLASH HPLV
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, J. K. Rowling does, and if I _did_ own it, you wouldn't be finding me on a fanfiction page, now would you?

Spoilers: SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP, FB;

Summary: Voldemort tries to kill Harry by stealing his soul, but instead, they switch bodies! Now it's up to them to make sure no one finds out and kills them both accidentally. Slash later on

Rating: PG-13

**Play My Game **

_Prologue  
_

Transfiguration was known to be boring. Professor McGonagall, Transfiguration teacher and Order of the Phoenix member, was a very severe person who wouldn't let students drift off in her class if her life depended on it. Well, at least it was meant to be so. This period they were trying to transfigure a glass of water- full, of course - to a fire breathing dragon. Except that everyone seemingly forgot that it was improbable if not impossible, that water would ever turn to fire . Harry Potter, sixth year Gryffindor, was staring, or rather glaring at his newly transfigured mini-wannabe-dragon, that was a neon shade of pink and with spots of green (and currently deep in dreamland), willing it to wake up and spit fire, wich of course, it didn't. He had already tried to shake it, and it _had_ woken up, only to bite him in the finger and fall asleep again.

Finally giving up, he conjured a small pillow and blanket to at least make it comfortable for the small reptile, and looked round. Needless to say, Professor McGonagall was holding an didactic –or boring, as most called it- conversation with star-student Hermione Granger, one of histwo best friends, on the technical hitches of the Glass-Dragon transformation. Ron Weasley, his other best friend was currently residing in the hospital wing due to one of Crabbe's –or was it Goyle's?- Bludgers. And it had been because of that Bludger that they had lost the Gryffindor-Slytherin match. The current Seeker, Ginny Weasley was good, but Draco Malfoy was better.

Sighing, he did the one most sacrilegious thing that a student could do in Transfiguration Class – he drifted off.

Sirius had died at the beginning of the summer, something still weighing heavily on is mind, and probably forever would. Remus Lupin, who had inherited the Black Family Fortune along with himself and Tonks, was the closest thing he currently had to a confidant and a father-figure, since he still resented Dumbledore for everything he had done last year. In the summer he had wanted to hate the man, rip him to pieces and feed him to Aunt Marge's bulldogs, but he had come to understand that to win this war he had to accept the man. Still, it would be a long time until he could trust him again. As for Snape, the relationship between them wasn't 'He-hates-so-I-return-the-favour' but 'he-hates-me-because-I-am-my-father's-son-and-I-hate-him-back-because-he-helped-kill-Siruis'.

A loud crash brought him out of his reverie, announcing that Neville had broken his third glass in row. This time, however he tried to remedy his failure by trying putting the green-gold coloured glass together again - keyword being trying. Instead, the shards were flying wildly around the room, while Neville was waving his wand frantically. True, the boy had improved due to the DA, but he wasn't used to his new wand; he had broken his old one in the Battle at the Department of Mysteries. The only lucky one out of them had been Ron, who had gained an influx of knowledge because of the brain that had attacked him.

Some of the shards, flying wildly, had impaled themselves in McGonagall's right arm, just as she was trying to gain control of them. Another one had flown into Lavender's eye, and she was screeching as blood was flowing out of it. The students that were near the door ran out to bring help, while the others were hiding under their respectivetables. Harry ducked a moment too late, a shard impaling itself right into his scar, which started burning in pain, excruciating pain. He passed out.

_He was walking down a familiar dark corridor, following the shrieks of pain resonating from a half open door. Voldemort stood there, he watched, in all his serpentine glory, calling "_Crucio, Crucio!_" red beams of light hurtling towards a bloodied and battered Sirius. Voldemort transformed into Bellatrix, who began laughing and sent a Killing Curse towards Sirius, who became his Mother…_

_The horrible scenery changed to something less vague, less surreal. He knew what was happening, he frantically he tried to Occlude his mind, but even as his thoughts were hidden, he still was there, still floating immaterially in front of the Dark Lord, who was preparing a potion. Strange, usually he was watching through Voldemort's eyes, but not now. The huge bubbling cauldron morbidly reminded him of the one Voldemort used at his rebirth … but something was off … the man in front of him _felt_ like Voldemort, but didn't look like him. Thick raven hair obscured his deathly pallid face. Catlike eyes, so like Voldemort's were glowing sanguine, tinted with green. The face however was young, almost handsome, with a normal nose and normal lips, not at all like the snakelike visage he always associated with his nemesis. Even with all the differences, he _knew_ the man in front of him had to be Voldemort. _

_Harry watched fascinated as Voldemort added a pair of vivid bluish-green feathers to the concoction, making green smoke rise from its surface. Voldemort smiled maliciously, and looked up directly into Harry's eyes. Green met red, and for a split second neither of them spoke, one of them in shock and the other relishing the shock. _

_"Why are you surprised, kitten?" Voldemort spoke, his voice chilling as ever. He had come to calling him that after their latest encounter, a month ago at the Hogsmeade Battle, when Harry tried to run away from him again on Remus' orders, 'like a kitten rather than likethe lion he was supposed to be'. Suffice to say, it enraged him enough _not _to escape, until Remus threw a portkey at him and he stupidly caught it. He still hated it."Is it the fact that you are here? Or maybe my appearance?" Was Voldemort reading his mind? "No, I am not reading your mind, if that is what you are thinking. It was merely an educated guess. My faithful Severus" - faithful his arse -"brewed me a potion to restore my old looks. But that is not why we are here, are we?" _

_"How the hell should I know why you brought me here!"_

_"Think. Or is that above you?" he replied smirking._

_"Fuck you!"_

_"As much as the offer appeals to me, I fear you won't have time after this. "_

_Suppressing an inappropriate blush, Harry mocked "Let me guess: this is one of your hair-brained schemes to kill me."_

_Voldemort shook his head "No manners at all, kitten, such a pity. You should be grateful you are to see Lord Voldemort one last time, before you fall into painful oblivion, before you are thus immortalized. Do you know what this is?"_

_He gestured towards a crystal bottle on his right-hand side. Harry eyed it apprehensively. To him it sounded more like a bluff ratherthan anything else, but if Voldemort was _not_ known for something, it was bluffing. _

_"Well?" Voldemort sounded vaguely eager. _

_"A bottle? Are you trying to knock me unconscious with it?" he asked, earning a sharp bark of laughter from the Dark Lord._

_"It is such a shame to deprive the world of such imagination. But no, I will give you immortality!"_

_"You are contradicting yourself, Voldemort. Besides, it was _your_ dream to be immortal!"_

_"Yesss, but I plan to be immortal with my body intact," he paused, for the dramatic effect. "I found a nice little spell that is labelled as more unforgivable than the Unforgivable Curses, worse than the Dementor's Kiss." That didn't sound good "It steals and traps a soul in a crystal prison. A truly divine curse, it leaves the soul defenceless, completely to the mercy of the caster to be forever tormented. And because your body is dead, the prophecy will be fulfilled. Yes, don't look so surprised, I do know about it now. Your power will be useless!"_

_As Voldemort laughter ringed in his ears, Harry felt panic rise inside him. He tried to concentrate on his connection to his body, only to realise that it was too thin to risk following back – so thin that it might just snap if he put pressure on it. He tried to strengthen his Occlumency shield – he would not go down without a fight! He had sworn he was going to live – sworn it by the memory of a all that had died for him!_

_"It is in vain! You can't fight me!" Voldemort took the crystal bottle and filled it with the black potion, placing it right in front of Harry. Then he raised both his hands, one pointing towards the potion-filled bottle, and the other towards Harry. _

_Harry tried to knock the potion over -to break the bottle- but his hands went right through it, as if he was nothing more than a powerless ghost, a mere shadow._

_Saying a string of words in a language Harry didn't recognise, the strange brew began to ascend out of the Bottle, tendrils stretching towards both Harry and Voldemort. The air turned thick, and shadows began to dance across the walls. The torches that had illuminated the spartan room flickered and died out. He saw Voldemort glowing an eerie sickly green, and Harry, he realised with alarm was glowing too, but a blazing red instead. Then Voldemort moved his left and in circular motion around the bottle and Harry, but something different was happening. The crystal bottle was empty again, not a trace of potion remaining in it. Instead, the potion was reaching out towards both him and Voldemort. He didn't register as Voldemort's glowing form began screaming and shouting counter-curses, as he began to fight against the tendrills, because a pain of thousand knifes cutting through him at once passed through him, until blessed oblivion befell him._

_llllll_

A/N: Hope you liked it; I apologize for any mistakes, since English is not my first language. I tried to correct everything with my computer, but you guysknow how unreliable that is. R/R


	2. The Voices inside My Head

_Disclaimer:_ this story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Play My Game**

_Chapter One – Voices Inside my Head_

"Ugh" was the first thing that came out of Harry's mouth when he finally woke up. He half expected the blinding white light of the infirmary, but he was pleasantly surprised to find himself in a darkened room. The Gryffindor Tower first came to mind, but the thought was squashed when he felt the silk sheets caressing his body. Wait a moment! Silk sheets? _Who_ would actually let _him_ sleep on silk sheets? Stupid question, the Boy-Who-Lived in him quipped. Who would _bother _to get him silk sheets in Hogwarts? Wait, what if he wasn't in Hogwarts? For that matter where was he? The last thing he remembered was Neville blowing his glass up in Transfiguration, and that horribly realistic dream – nightmare – whatever – afterwards. Or _was_ it a nightmare? He remembered Voldemort casting some weird curse, then pain … a lot of pain. From what that, he reckoned the curse didn't work as it was supposed to, so he probably got back to his body, an extremely sore body. Wait, what if he didn't get back to his body all? He flexed a finger as if to test his theory and immediately he calmed down as it responded to the mental stimuli.

Almost automatically, his hand travelled to the nightstand beside the bed, groping for his glasses - that weren't there. He panicked (for a moment), before deciding that whoever owned the bed had forgotten to leave his glasses there.

But what if the glasses purposefully weren't left there? What if he had been kidnapped? What if the kidnapper was a Death Eater or Voldemort? Would they kill him fast or would they- he decided _that_ train of thought wasn't exactly logic,since Death Eaters wouldn't lay him on _silk_ sheets. Cold, damp and dark dungeon cells without even a pot to piss inyes, but certainly not a warm room with a big bed and silk sheets.

Sighing, he opened his eyes and tried to distinguish something in the blurry room. Almost instantly, as his gaze focused on a wardrobe on the right side of the room, his first big shock came: he could see perfectly. Had someone repaired his eyesight? That was really advanced magic, and only a certified healer should do it Hermione had once told him. Maybe his captor – no, the owner of these rooms was healer.

The chamber was very spacious, with a high ceiling from wich a beautiful crystalline chandelier hung. The healer who owned the chamber was obviously very rich, but had taste. The chandelier didn't seem to give the chamber a far too opulent air.

The bed, wich was covered in green and silver sheets, was placed directly opposite of a door, and right next to it was a large window overlooking a wild-looking, but still striking garden and a dark, disturbing forest. In the far he could even see mountains. On the wall to his right was another door, right next to a small collection of books and silverware neatly organised and a full-length mirror. On the opposing wall was a fireplace faced by a pair of black leather couches and an ebony table, above wich was a painting of an ashen man with ablack goatee, and vivid green eyes not unlike is own. The man had a vacant look inthem and didn't move, making Harry wonder if it wasn't a muggle portrait. Still, the man looked somehow familiar …

Tearing his eyes away, Harry noticed a desk almost next to his bed; quills, parchments, old tomes, a half-full glass of some burgundy liquid (probably wine, he mused), a pensieve and a wand were thrown messily, in obvious haste, on it (the glass and the pensieve were, obviously, not _thrown_ he corrected himself). Various potion ingredients and strange-looking items were on the shelf above it, carefully labelled and arranged, in stark contrast with the desk. As an afterthought he noticed that almost everything in the room was done in green, silver or black - even the doors and the furniture were ebony. The owner of the room was very obviously a Slytherin, he concluded when he saw a –surprise, surprise- snake carving on the door in front of him.

Curiously, he stood up –noticing his black _silk_ garments- and looked over the desk. The parchments were covered in odd drawings and formulas he recognized as arithmancy equations. The books were written in strange runes he couldn't read, all besides one that was written in Latin. However the script was so flamboyant that he could only recognise the words 'Anima', 'Sanguis' and 'Carmen'.

He decided not to dwell on it and reached for the long wand, a feeling of slight guilt invading him at thethought of using another's wand, but he rectified it by thinking that at least he wasn't touching the pensieve. He didn't want a repeat of the scene with Snape last year, and besides, who would leave his wand unguarded if it wasn't supposed to be touched? He lifted it and weird and wonderful warmth overflowed him, like the first time he had picked up his own wand, back then at Ollivanders. He waved it and silver and green sparks shot out of it. It was fascinating! He had always thought that there was only one wand that fit a wizard absolutely, but he was obviously wrong. Measuring it with is eyes he saw it was about thirteen inches long …

Abruptly, he let the wand drop and backed away from the desk … he knew that wand … he had seen it so frequently in his nightmare … thirteen inches, yew, phoenix feather, brother to his own … Lord Voldemort's wand … and it felt bizarrely right …

He collided with a smooth surface and twisted swiftly around. The full-length mirror stood in front of him … but it wasn't _his_ visage that was starring back. Stunned catlike crimson eyes were watching him avidly, sallow features contorted in purest disbelief…

_Voldemort_

* * *

Dazzling rays of light invaded his still closed eyes as Voldemort finally rejoining the land of the waking. The Dark Lord had long since learned not to show any sings he was waking once regaining consciousness, particularly if he woke in a disquieting situation; and disquieting it was! His private chambers had a restrained Darkening Charm on them as to prevent such a situation – like waking up with the sun burning in one's eyes – from ever occurring.

Subtly, he moved his hands over the sheets and recognised the soft, yet the far too coarse for his tastes, quality of cotton. Now that was wrong; in his own chambers he had silk sheets. Sniffing around, he felt the faint odour of antiseptic – he was in a hospital. Collecting his thoughts, he let his mind wander over what might have possibly happened. If Voldemort prided himself on being something, it was being patient and controlled –and, yes he _was_ patient and controlled; it wasn't _his_ fault if some of his followers were dim-witted.

Regardless, not showing any perceptible reaction, he began thinking. Could he have been captured? Wouldn't he already be deceased then? Well, he wasn't dead, of that he was sure. Death felt different, and he would know it. After all, Dumbledore, or _any_ member of that insipid light side for that matter, wouldn't let the opportunity to slaughter him pass. And _if_ that was the case, why would they be keeping him on cotton sheets? Or in St Mungos? No one sane would risk doing that. No, it had to be something else.

He heard a light chuckle. "I know you're conscious, Harry, no use pretending to be fast asleep"

Dumbledore. That was Albus bloody Dumbledore's voice. Albus bloody Dumbledore's voice that was speaking to him like some ridiculous variety of a grandfather. Albus bloody Dumbledore's voice that had just called him 'Harry'.

No use to pretend, he thought as his eyes snapped open only to notice, disgusted, that his gaze was blurry at best. So the great leader of the light side had taken it upon him to blind his captured foe, rendering him more or less defenceless. Dumbledore seemed to grow increasingly senile day after day, because he had always assumed Dumbledore knew about his ability to distinguish the flows of magic around him. Well, it wasn't all that that surprising, really; how old was Dumbledore now? Hundred forty, Hundred fifty? Not that he cared, mind you, but it was amusing to know that his rival was twice as old as he himself was, bearing in mind he was around seventy himself. With an afterthought he noted that the old man hadn't even blinded him completely, only as much as to assure he couldn't distinguish anything less vague than then the area where Dumbledore was standing and where the walls and windows where approximately located. Not that it helped him much; he was quite sure there were anti-magic fields specifically keyed to him around the room – not that he could prove it, without alerting his enemy he was more than able to escape.

Dumbledore's voice, now serious brought him back to reality. In seventy years he hadn't been able to overcome the practically, for someone of his status, suicidal habit of dozing off! His Death Eaters of course admired even _this_ trait on him! It was highly disturbing … and ridiculous … the only ones that seemed to have the valour to shake him out of it were Severus, Lucius and Nagini, although the last one didn't count as minion. Well, perhaps the several Cruciatuses also contributed to his servant's wariness. _Oh, for Salazar's sake_! He was drifting off _again_! "Here" said Dumbledore and handed him something. Glasses, he recognized; why would Dumbledore give him _glasses?_

Regardless, in an act that he would undoubtedly later classify as completely and utterly_ stupid_ he took the glasses and put them on. Rather than burning his eyes out, or something similarly un-Dumbledore, his gaze focused and he could see fairly well. The prescription wasn't exactly fitting, but it worked well enough. He was lying in a plain and small typical hospital bed with the curtains drawn to the side. Dumbledore was sitting at his bedside, watching him withhis typical serene look, but that wasn'tby farthe most shocking: he was familiar with the infirmary he was in! He was in Hogwarts' Hospital Wing...

"So, now let us move on to some more grave matters, shall we? Or do you want to have a lemon drop first? No? Well, they are very good, and just last night I … oh, I'm getting off-track again!" - Voldemort gave him a flabbergasted look - "I heard of today's incident in Transfiguration. Am I right in assuming your scar was involved?" Scar! One moment! Had Dumbledore not previously called him Harry? He knew only of one Harry with a scar, and who incidentally wore glasses: Harry_ Potter_! Did Dumbledore think he was the Potter boy? He didn't know whether to laugh hysterically at the irony – and not to mention absurdity of it all- or to snarl that he was Lord Voldemort, Harry Potter's polar opposite!

But when he looked down at his hands, his mind stopped working. They weren't spidery and ghostly white (something they stayed even after the special ritual he took to regain his former looks), but petite with a faint golden tan. Speaking of rituals, images of the _failed_ ritual just before he lost consciousness flooded him … the eerie light connecting him and Potter (he only called the boy 'kitten' tohis face– without having the satisfaction of seeing the boy furious, it made little to no sense) instead of Potter with the crystal … with the images coming back to him he let out a mental yelp of astonishment that resonated peculiarly through his mind. _'What the hell!'_ –and again that strange echo was heard. _'Is someone in there?_' he asked himself. Great, now he was talking to his own head. '_Idiotic thought'_ he admonished, but this time he was sure he heard 'dumb' instead of 'idiotic'. And that reverberation had the slightly high-pitched tenor of a teenager. _'Now this is plain unnerving'_ he thought while the echo exclaimed something analogous to _'Who's there? Where? What?'_

"Harry, is everything alright?" Dumbledore sounded vaguely worried. Well, he should be. It wasn't everyday that he was talking to his greatest enemy in Hogwarts. Still, the situation could prove usefull.

"Err, no, Professor, I'm just … sleepy … yes, sleepy. Can we hold this … conversation … later?" he said, twisting the corners of his mouth into what he hoped to be a sheepish and altogether gullible smile. Only after the statement he remembered Dumbledore was not a professor anymore, but he hoped the comment would slide. Nonetheless, he was grateful he hadn't said 'Dumbledore', or worse, 'Albus'. Later, he might think of several more appropriate reactions.

His luck was that in that precise moment the matron, of whom he didn't know the name of, came waltzing in. "You heard Albus, the poor boy is completely tired out! Not that I blame him, mind you! He needs his sleep, you two can speak when he is healthy again!" She gave the impression he had some incurable malady, or better yet, that he was on his death bed. How apropiate."Now out! I told you, remember, if the boy isn't able to speak to you yet, you shouldn't push him. Now shoo, shoo! He needs the precious sleep!" Dumbledore stood up almost serenely, said his goodbyes and went out under the woman's death glare. After the infirmary was cleared of 'trespassers' again, she focussed her attention on him. "Now hear here, young man, I'll let you sleep now, but if you experience any pains, stiffness or insomnia call me immediately. Is that understood? You are still weak, so you better not move if it can be helped"

"I'm not going to die, madam" he said defiantly, only to realise what a foolish move that had been. But she just sniffed and marched out, as if she was familiar with that comment from him, what she probably was, in retrospect. Not that he particularly cared. What he did care about was that this ... body, for lack of a better word was accustomed to speaking without thinking it through first.

In any case, he already had a fair idea what the elusive ricochet had been and still was. After his last response, he was fairly sure it wasn't only an 'idiotic/dumb echo'. For once in his life he hoped from the bottom of his inexistent heart he was wrong.

More to reassure himself than anything else, he asked it '_Who are you?' _Apparently it had the same idea, so Voldemort found himself groaning softly, half-exasperated. He said _'One at a time'_, without echo. The echo-voice-whatever was silent for a few moments, and Voldemort dared say _'you first'. _Annoyingly enough, the voice had the same idea.

This was going to be a long afternoon…

* * *

A/N: Well, Voldemort might seem a bit OoC, but, let's not forget that he was a little under shock.

And, I need a beta. A spellchecker may be halfway reliable, but it doesn't tell me if my characters are OoC or if certain OCs are mary-sueish. Not that I plan on introducing any new major characters anytime soon.


	3. Discussions and 'Un'Agreements

Disclaimer: this story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

"whatever" – normal speech;

_'whatever' – _speech through telepathic connection;

"_whatever"_ - Parseltongue;

**Play My Game**

_Chapter Two – Discussions and (Un-)Agreements  
_

Harry was starring uncomprehendingly at the mirror in front of him. His face was pale and drawn, shadowed by a curtain shoulder-length black hair, but that wasn't what captured his attention. As the image in front of him began to register in his mind he let out a mental yelp of astonishment that resonated strangely through his mind. A feeling of deja-vu followed the line of thought, but as he blinked it was lost, replaced by the image in the mirror.

His eyes were red, red and catlike, exactly as he remembered _his_ eyes to be. Not his own, but Voldemort's. And it wasn't his body either! His skin wasn't almost translucent; his body wasn't so _tall_ and _thin_!

Sure, he _was_ thin himself; no use denying it, but combined with the tall frame of this body and the skin that was whiter than muggle paper it looked almost like a corpse. He vividly remembered the time when this body was completely hairless and had neither lip, nor nose; like a zombie. But still … it may be a difference like heaven and earth between the two appearances, but still…

What could have happened to determine this … _switch_ for lack of better word? It must have somehow been connected to the failed ritual (obviously!)… He distinctly remembered Voldemort's panicked expression before he lost consciousness. What had gone wrong? Voldemort might have been a lot of things, but he wasn't reckless. So, what did he know? He was in some unknown chamber that belonged to a rich Slytherin who had left in a rush, forgetting his wand. The aforementioned wand responded to him as if it was his own and the mirror in front of him showed the Dark Lords reflection. It only had one explanation: _somehow_ he _switched_ bodies with Voldemort's. But what happened to _Voldemort's_ _spirit_?

_'What the Hell?'_ Could it be? A chill went through him as realization struck him … they must _really_ have, using his own previous words, _switched_. The thought echoed again strangely and he found himself asking _'Is someone there?'_ He half-scolded himself for such a stupid thought while wondering if the ritual hadn't affected his brain. Or was it his brain?

_'Dumb thought' _

_Wait_ a moment! He had clearly heard _idiotic_! And that in a high-pitched tone that was _not_ his own! _'Who the _fucking hell_ is there? Where? _What_ is happening!'_ The voice exclaimed something else, much more calmly. _Well,_ he mused, _talking to your own head is the first sign of madness, Potter. And the second being addressing yourself in third person – and by your last name, no less._ He cleared his head of that thought since at the moment he had more important things to do thanbrood about than his sanity (or lack of it). He contemplated his next question somewhat and had a wonderful – brilliant even- idea of what to ask:

_'Who are you?'_ Well, apparently the voice was thinking in along the same lines itself, so – you guessed correctly- it echoedthrough in his head. He was about to bang his head against the mirror, not caring about whether or not he would experience seven years of misfortune by breaking the damn thing, when the voice spoke, this time, blessedly, without Harry.

_'One at a time'_

Well, at least the voice had abit of intelligence. He would have gone mad if he would have been stuck with Crabbe or Goyle in his head. Or even Malfoy (okay, he wasn't stupid, but still far too childish for his tastes). Waiting a few moments, then going increasingly annoyed as the voice stayed silent (patience was far from being his forte) he said: '_You__ first'_.

He faintly heard a glass shatter in the background as the voice echoed him. _Time to revive some of my lost patience_, he thought, while he crossed the room and flopped himself onto the bed. The cool sheets helped calm his nerves somewhat while he waited for the voice to speak.

Fifteen minutes later…

He finished inspecting his fingernails (wich were more like finger_claws_), while waiting for the voice to speak. Dimly wondering if the voice had accidentally died, he bended over to inspect his toenails instead.

Half an hour later…

_'SAY SOMETHING YOU FUCKING VOICE OR I'LL RIP THIS DAMNED BED APART!'_

Three guesses from whom the comment came and the first two don't count; Harry was at his patience's end. There was only so much one could find fascinating in toenails and considering his past experience with anger management he was surprised he lasted this long in the first place. At least the scream hadn't echoed, otherwise it might have caused some migraine – enough to demolish the room.

_'Temper, temper; and I'd rather you wouldn't scream so. My ears are very sensitive'_ the cool voice seemed totally unabashed at the strange situation.

_'I'LL SCREAM ALL I WANT! I DON'T CARE FOR YOUR BLOODY EARS! AND DON'T MAKE THIS SEEM AS IF YOU DIDN'T DAMNED WELL DESERVE ANY AND EVERY SCREAM YOU GET FOR HAVING ME WAIT HALF A BLOODY HOUR TAKING YOUR TIME SAYING _NOTHING

_'And what, risk the comment echoing? Why, pray tell then, haven't _you _said anything'_

Harry visibly – or, for the voice, that could come from Peru for all he knew, invisibly - deflated. It did have a point.

_'Sorry'_ he mentally muttered.

_'Apologising, are we?'_

_'Whoever you are, you're stating the obvious.'_

_'Not if I'm right about your identity. Now tell me, is your name incidentally Harry Potter?'_

_'Who theheck are you?'_

He heard a high rumbling that apparently was the mental equivalent of a laugh. And the laugh did not soothe his fears in the least.

_'So I am right.' _It said sounding vaguely derisive._ 'You are the illustrious Boy-Who-Lived, such a coincidence; but isn't life just that, a sequence of coincidences?_' And again it laughed, but louder this time._ 'Do you not recognise my voice? After all, we talked quite a few times, haven't we, _kitten

Harry felt his blood run cold. It couldn't be! Of all the characters that hated him – hell, _actively_ tried _to kill him – _that could have ended up in his head it had to be _Voldemort_! Whoop-de-fucking-woo - he could _smell_ the sarcastic direction of his thoughts - he was positively _thrilled_ of the prospect to have Voldemort in his … wait a moment! _'I _know_ that I am using Occlumency at the moment, so how come_ you_ are in _my _head?'_

_'In _your_ head?' _he repeated_ 'Daydreaming again, are we? As far as I am aware, _you_ are in _my_ head, _kitten

_'I am not! – and don't call me that, _Voldie-poo If Voldemort would be in front of him he was sure a Cruciatus would be least he got cursed with, but because Voldemort wasn't there Harry –what else? – snickered.

_'How about we cease with these annoying nicknames? After all, we _are_ in a rather … precarioussituation at the moment. So tell me, where are you?'_ he asked, his tone turning abruptly to serious reminding Harry of the reality of his situation. Still, he would not give Voldemort any advantage over him.

_'How about you tell me first where _you_ are?'_

A few moments of silence, then… _'In Hogwarts Hospital Wing; where are you?'_

_'Shit! Shit! Shit! And don't you _dare_ berate me for my language! Are you in my body?'_

_'Now it's not your turn. So I ask, are you in _my_ body?'_

_'That wasn't your first question.'_

_'So I've changed my mind. Tell me now, _are_ you in my body?'_

_'Yes.'_

_'Then I know where you are. You are in my private chambers.'_

_'How can you know?'_

_'None of your concern, kitten.'_

Harry scowled. Why couldn't _he_ just answer? Voldemort had to be in his body otherwise the Headmaster sure as hell wouldn't have kept him in the Hospital Wing of all places. Then he had another question…

_'How do _I_ know it is your chamber?'_

_'My turn.__ Is Dumbledore always waiting by your bedside when you awake?'_

_'Dumbledore!__ Shit! How did you act?'_ For all he knew Voldemort could have acted any way, though, if he threw a fit it would have been far more appropriate than any other reaction. Dumbledore knew Harry was prone to fits if he or Snape were near, the recent Hogsmeade Battle only adding to the distrust, since he had made Remus throw the portkey at him that brought him to safety. In hindsight he knew that Voldemort was magically (and of late physically) much stronger than him. Well, he may have a chance if the tables would – _'Wait a moment! I can kill you now! I am stronger than you!'_

_'And live the rest of your natural life as Lord Voldemort? How amusing.' _He sounded anything but amused.

_'I don't care! The Wizarding World would be free of you! I could stage my own death or something and then-'_

Voldemort cut him off_ 'As fascinating as this is, have you never heard of the story of the Founders of Durmstrang?'_

_'Who cares about children's stories!__ I could-'_

_'There were two brothers. One was a goody two-shoes, Strang and the other his more or less evil friend Durmer. They decided on creating a school for their combined arts, blah, blah blah, but one day they switched bodies. Now comes the interesting part: Strang found this a perfect opportunity to kill Durmer and he killed him.'_ Voldemort's narrative was smooth, as if he had told the story many times. Maybe he practiced it in front of that mirror of his?

_'Oh, how perfectly enthralling, but the point is?'_

_'Patience. So, because of a side effect of the curse, Durmer was now in Strang's head.'_

_'Don't see a bloody difference'._

_'So poor Strang killed himself.__ But Durmer remained in the body, so he was back in his own body and living. A beautiful tale, isn't it?'_

_'If that is so, why would _you_ encourage me _not_ to make the same mistake!'_

_'Because it's a legend, stupid boy!__ No one knows how much truth lurks behind those words, and I _don't_ want to chance fate.'_

_'Afraid of dying, are we?'_

_'Look, you moron, there's a fifty-fifty chance of the same thing happening, and if it happens, the Wizarding World will be doomed without their little saviour.'_

_'But if it doesn't happen, you will be dead and everything will go back to being peaceful.' _Harry could practically see in his mind's eye the red-eyed human-snake hybrid that was Voldemort rubbing the bridge of a non-existent nose. It had a strange kind of satisfaction to know that he could infuriate the Dark Lord like that.

_'Listen-'_

_'I get the gist of it already, ok? I'm not totally dense, you know. But that means we have live each other's life's until we can turn things back to normal.' _Harry harboured no illusions that anyone on the Light Side would kill Voldemort, and thus fullfill his dire prediction, and the same would happen if the Death Eaters found out he wasn't Voldemort. It may happen that if he would be killed, he would actually survive through the curse, but just as well and could die and end of story.

_'As much as I hate to say it, you're right,'_ replied Voldemort, somewhat coolly.

_'So, in other words, we'll need to share the basics of each others lives.'_

Both groaned mentally, so it echoed. Harry found it vaguely amusing now, as opposed to when he wanted to strangle the – whatever. Could one strangle an echo? Well, strangle it mentally ... useless train of thought.

_'We can't do this,' _said Harry.

_'And what do you propose?'_

_'We have to tell someone.'_

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the delay, but I tried a different style of writing this, more angsty, but the only thing it improved was the writer's block. In any case I am working on a few parallel things, my German story being one of them, and the other a side story to this.

EDITED 25-07-2005 along with the Prolog and the 1st Chapter.


	4. CrashCourse in Being 'insert name'

_Disclaimer:_ this story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Play My Game**

_Chapter Three – Crash-course in being Harry/Voldie_

'_I told you, we WILL NOT tell _Bellatrix _bloody Lestrange or Lucius _Malfoy_!' _said Harry, pacing up and down the thick rug. For the past half hour, they've been arguing over whom to tell. Harry, of course, proposed Ron and Hermione, but Voldemort was absolutely against the idea to tell a Weasley and a mudblood, both firm supporters of the light side – so who did he propose? Of course, bloody Bellatrix and Lucius. Besides the fact that Harry was sure to flip if he ever saw the bloody woman again, she was half-crazy from prolonged exposure to Azkaban. Not that she didn't deserve it. As for the elder Malfoy, he _was _absolutely _not_ about to take the risk of telling that power-hungry mongrel hemay in any way be vulnerable.

'_But we will NOT tell your pet werewolf either! Or any Auror, much less Dumbledore himself!'_

'_And let me guess, the next one you propose is Wormtail?' _mocked Harry. Voldemort let out the mental equivalent of a menacing growl. Harry could feel the frustration leak through their mental barriers. Even though they were speaking via the mind, they kept their shields up as to not let any stray thoughts wander.

'_Sure, Wormtail would be the perfect choice! That bloody weakling would betray this and me as soon as anyone as much as threatened him! And I would know.'_

'_Still, you have him in your Inner Circle,' _Harry pointed out dryly.

'_What would you expect? The Inner Circle saw him helping me to regain a body,'_ Voldemort snapped.

'_So he's a role model? No matter how stupid you are, if you keep licking master's boots, even if the rest of him is already half-rotten, you get to know his little secrets?' _Harry raised both his eyebrows (mainly because he never really managed to raise only one).

'_Exactly. The Dark Mark keeps them loyal; morons like Pettigrew keep them ambitious. You wouldn't believe just how many of my friends do things just to prove that they're better than a slimy snivelling piece of filth.'_

'_So we come to agreement, at last.'_

Voldemort would have raised his eyebrow if he would've been in front of him. _'What, that Wormtail is stupid?'_

'_No, dumbass; we won't tell anyone. Back to plan A,' _clarified Harry.

'_So it seems, but only for the moment, until we can figure somebody else out. Though I _really_ can't see you following my daily routine'_ - that was probably the first thing they completely agreed about all afternoon.

Harry sighed. _'The first thing you need to know is that you should avoid Dumbledore, Snape, and Remus at any costs, otherwise they'll figure it out in no time' _

'_I get that on my own, idiot. Conversely, what do you do if you actually meet them? From all the anger I've been getting from you through the bond...'_

Harry blushed. _'Act normal, or as normal as you can, with almost everyone, including Ron, 'Mione, and Remus -and all of Gryffindor tower. _Do not_ dare to snog, screw or suck anyone off!'_

'_An adolescent avoiding snogs, screws and blow-jobs?'_ Voldemort sounded amused.

'_Yes, and don't stare after the girls!'_

'_Ah, such a delicious titbit! So you, the famous Boy-Who-Lived, are gay?'_ Voldemort purred, in what he apparently hoped to be a seductive voice. Harry shivered slightly, disgusted.

'_For your information, I'm not interested in either. End of subject.'_ Harry proclaimed coldly. Voldemort felt taken aback, but stayed quiet.

In truth, the Dursley's had beaten any sexuality more or less out of him. The thing with Cho in his fifth year had been just that, a thing, his body reacting. Over the summer, a boy had approached him. When it threatened to go further than a few kisses, Harry had fled. Since then he had been purposefully _not_ looking at anyone and deeply aware that he was ashamed of his own sexuality. He had spoken to Remus about this, and the Werewolf had said that it probably was fear of rejection combined with the guilt that Sirius could not do _it _anymore. Rubbish. What he _had not_ told Remus was that Harry would not even wank because of this - before it had barely even crossed his mind, and later it made him feel strangely dirty. He personally assumed it was a side effect of the Dursleys, rather than of Sirius' death. He had never really opened up to anyone for fear of being ridiculed, of being called a freak, of being hurt, and, sure, _fear of being rejected_. Exactly what his _family_ had done. He only briefed Ron shortly while on their first ride to Hogwarts because hehopedthe boy may understand; he didn't, but he hadn't pushed him away or shown any pity either, and that was as good as it could get. A sexual relationship was far more intimate thanmasturbating (whichwas, in his opinion,acknowledging that he longed to be touched, loved). He was far more independent than that. Besides, everyone he let close was in danger. Even his friends felt this faintly, even thoughhe had never told them of the prophecy, or of anything in between Sirius' death (though it had been Neville who hadhad told them about the veil) and him leaving Dumbledore's office.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, he continued with the briefing. If Harry found Voldemort's own silence strange, he didn't mention it.

'_In front of your own house, I'm fairly indifferent though you would do well with a few sneers and glares. Badmouthing them and Snape is always welcome. As for Snape, if you meet him alone be as impolite and obnoxious as possible, and insult him while not straying from the school rules. In class it's the Dumbledore-method- be as good and falsely bright as possible.'_

'_My, how positively Slytherin of you'_ Voldemort sneered.

'_I'll take that as a compliment'_ Harry narrowed his eyes, forgetting the Dark Lord wasn't in front of him. _'In any case, don't be eager about homework, let Ron beat you at chess, don't spend more time in the library than Hermione and you have DA lessons every Tuesday and Friday, and before you ask, it's the Defence Association. You teach children mid-level defence and stay away from Dark Magic.'_

'_I've heard of Dumbledore's Army, as you liked to call it. Apropos the aforementioned imbecile, what should I do with him, and what exactly is 'normal' to you? I'm quite sure my view of it is _slightly_ different.'_

'_Normal is, I guess, being irritable at any mention of...'_ Harry trailed off, slight pink tinges on this cheeks.

'_That mutt, Black?'_

'_Shut it, you sorry excuse for a zombie!' _Harry glared at the mirror, wich still reflected Voldemort's face.

'_Ah, I see what you mean. And Dumbledore?'_

Harry sighed. '_Defiant, do not agree with him on anything if Moody isn't backing him.' _

'_Mad-Eye? You mean the paranoid old wizard who cursed a kid because he was holding a stick towards him?'_ Disbelief was clear as day. Harry wondered for a moment where Voldemort knew about such a trivial thing from, but shook the thought off. Of course he'd know about his enemies.

'_Haven't heard that one yet, but one and the same; Why? Don't ask. Just that Moody doesn't value the art of subtle manipulations as much as the two of you do.'_

'_You don't cease to surprise me, kitten.' _Voldemort chuckled.

'_Well, I'm not all that saintly, as everyone makes me seem. Your turn now, _Tom,_'_

Voldemort was silent for a few moments; Harry assumed it was to gather his thoughts. Surprisingly again, he didn't comment on the 'Tom' issue. For Harry it was just as well, far less uncomplicated that 'Voldemort'.

'_You will have to call a meeting soon to tell Inner Circle the results of the Ritual. You will hold it at night so I can guide you through it. The Dark Mark is keyed to my magical signature, so it activates bytouch, by concentrating on who, or wich group you want to call. Use Wormtail, or some otherservant of minethat you find. Can you cast the Unforgivables?'_

'_I can't and_ _I won't,'_ said Harry flatly.

'_Can you use Legilimency?'_

''_Course not. Where could I have learned it from?'_

'_Do you know the Dark Arts?'_

'_No.'_

'_To you know how to act like me?'_

'_I've never tried, as you can immagine.'_

'_We are doomed.'_

'_I agree.'_

Voldemort - _Tom_contemplated again. _'You still have my brain, so in theory you could access the knowledge I gained over the years.'_

'_I'm thrilled' _Harry muttered, sardonically.

'_You should be. Unless you're a soul-gifted and no one knows, you shouldn't be able to get much more out of me.'_

'_Much more meaning?'_

Heshrugged – or at least Harry thought he did. _'Personal appreciations, emotions-'_

'_Oh, you have those?'_

'_I'm not a doll, you know. Can I continue? Good, you can't access memories either, hence, just pure, undiluted knowledge.'_

'_Are you saying that I could pluck every single curse and thingy out of your head?'_ Harry sounded half-pleased, half-disgusted.

'_It's not that simple. You have to be specific. Unless you know that the curse exists and want to look it up, you can't know it. Well, it would be _logical _for it to work that way.'_

'_Oh so it's like having one of those libraries in your head where you can only borrow books you only know the title of? Only this time it's the 'Voldie Library for Everyday Usable Curses'?'_ Harry smirked slightly as Voldemort sent a wave of aggravation to him.

'_Can't you be serious for once? I'm not doing any of this out of pleasure, or to satisfy some perverse streak of mine. In case you haven't forgotten, I am Lord Voldemort'_

'_Wich is an anagram for Tom Marvolo Riddle. Face it, I can't kill you, you can't kill me, and I certainly won't spend any more time in this body just because of our resentment. In fact, that should motivate us...' _Harry trailed off.

'_So, my little _kitten_ is starting to grow up. Funny I did not notice it; probably because you so rarely show it.'_ Voldemort managed to _not_ sound mocking, but the add-on emotions betrayed him. Funny thing; Harry briefly wondered if Voldemort knew about them. Probably, he surmised. Given his past experience with his scar, he was fairly sure the same thing was happening on the other side of the link. He sincerely hoped that the usual pain punctuated his emotions.

Silence ensued, as neither knew what to say. Then-

'_I shoul'd inform you that you're_friends_ are here to visit you!' _He said 'friends' with a tone that reminded him of a vegetarian appeciating a raw steak.

'_What?'_

'_The Granger girl and young Weasley, of course. Who else?They are arguing with the nurse-'_

'_Madam Pomfrey'_

'_Yes, yes, and are ostensibly winning.'_

'_So? Pretend!'_

'_My, I haven't figured it out myself.'_

'_Could you cutr out your sarcasm? We really don't need it now.'_

He was silent for a few moments.

'_While I deal with these two, look through those books on the desk. I'm sure you noticed them.'_

Harry blushed, gratefulf that the link wasn't a visual one. The blush looked horrible on his cheeks, he noted looking at the mirror.

'_Are you saying that the key to this stupid situations is on your desk!'_ Harry asked, trying not to sound too eacer. After all, it would be far too easy.

'_How stupid can one be? If that would be the case I certainly wouldn't be holding a polite conversation with you.'_

'_What are the books then?'_

'_Whatever they may be, they are in no language you could understand. Those are the books in which I found the curse that did this.'_

'_Great.'_

'_There is one in Latin, however. Cast a simple translating charm on it – third-year level charm for Latin.'_

'_I saw it! The one on wich blood and soul are written!'_

'_The title translates roughly to 'Poetry of Dark Curses of Soul and Blood'.'_

Harry gaped at the mirror. _'You picked this spell out of a bloody POETRY book!'_

* * *

A/N: Well, I took long enough to get this out. As for the telling thing, it was placed at exactly 2000 words –the minimum I wanted my chapters to be :). Snoogle-lenght, if you will. Besides, it will be an issue later, though I've not yetdecided who to tell. As for the first two, I hope you are not averse to including some further slash, besides the main pairing; and, before you ask, those two will not be together; Well, I hope not. I have the basic idea for this planned out, but... Suggestions are therefore welcomed, though I'll remind you Voldemort does not remember the diary incident. R/R

EDITED 26.07.2005


	5. School and Other Evil Stuff

_Disclaimer:_ this story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

**Play My Game**

_Chapter Four – School and Other Evil Stuff_

The discussion with _Hermione_ and _Ron_ went surprisingly well. He had had a hard time thinking them by their first names, or adapting to their childish banter, but eventually he had made it. He thanked Salazar again for his ability to easily adjust to situations. Still, it had not been a particularly hard challenge. He merely had to pretend he was fatigued, while the muggle-born girl told him of the lessons he supposedly lost, Ron Weasley making idiotic comments in-between. After what seemed like, Madam Pomfrey came in saying the fifteen minutes were over;the mudblood girl who was constantly rambling about homework and sounding as if she had memorised what the Professors said ad literam (not to mention the notes she gave him, wich were probably thicker than the textbooks themselves) scrambled out hastily, pulling the read headed boy with her. In a way, she reminded him of himself when he had beenin Hogwarts, the obvious issues aside.

In his own school years he had used to hang out with either those intelligent enough to make sense of his brainstorms, or, later, with those naïve enough to let themselves be manipulated. Tomhad never– and Voldemort still didn't – see the use of friends; they were a constant bother, always nagging over you and a liability. He had not yet attempted to capture the two because they were not likely to know anything. Even though Potter was an unofficial member ofDumbledore's Order, his sidekicks wouldnot be that privileged.

Theboy had tried to guide him through the ordeal, butunfortunately it turned out thatthe blasted boy could not hear anything that was going on in the 'real world', on the other side of the link. Still, at least they found that they could shut the link partially; Potter settled for trying to decipher the impossible Latin script.Voldemort had read the book at least a dozen times, so he was not expecting him to find anything. Still, he deserved to try; the author had apparently never heard of rime, tact, or even the word 'suspense'.

Well, be as it may, the next morning came the next challenge. What few people knew was that Lord Voldemort _never_ ate scrambled eggs or pumpkin juice; on the other hand, Potter always ate those. So what to do?

Extremely disgruntled, and refusing to tell a whining Harry Potter how to call one of the resident house-elves to bring him breakfast, he ate it. He wasn'tabout to give himself away over such a detail like food.

Then came the lessons.Voldemort was a master in almost everyschool of magic he had studied, foremost being the Dark Arts and Legilimency, and, consequently, Defence, Transfiguration, Charms, Arithmancy and Occlumency. He could brew complicated potions some masters of the field could not, and recognised very rare and dangerous plants, animals and their uses. He could speak and write fluently in Latin, Ancient and Modern Greek, AncientEgyptian, Arabic, as well as in Anglo-Saxon, French, German, Japanese, Chinese, Romanian, not to mention, Parseltongue.

Therefore, one could imagine, it wasn't exactly easy to adapt to a sixth year Hogwarts curriculum. Turning objects into magical creatures may have been near impossible for the average student, but for him it was child's play. He almost blew his cover as he transfigured his puddle of water into a dragon almost the size of his desk. Luckily he minimized it in time, but the teacher, Minnie McGonagall, he remembered her from school, had looked at him suspiciously.

He was more careful in potions, which wasn't exactly hard since he was paired with the Longbottom boy (once more regretting he hadn't attacked him fifteen year ago; at least he would have been easier to kill then Potter: by simply placing him into a potion's laboratory) who was terrified of the teacher, and hadlittle to nosense of timing. How he had gotten into NEWT-Level potions was a mystery, as Severus didn't fail to remind them. He had to resist bursting out laughing at the act the man was putting up just to please him.

At herbology he had been so distracted when a Hufflepuff started on a tirade about 'how evil You-Know-Who is', that his plant almost ate him. At lunch, it was the same dilemma as at breakfast.Voldemort never ate pork chops. Harry Potter loved them.

In Care of Magical Creatures they were dealing with baby Chimaeras, and in Defence some old Auror shot spells at them, but the woman was so old she could barely move. Her spells lacked strengthwhile she was too senile to remember even the most simple of notions. This was proved as she actually shot a cooking spell at some Irish Gryffindor, managing merely to make his robes tasteof chicken-soup.

So what to do in your free time? Granger proposed to go into the library until near curfew and study and he wasn't about to object. The read-head protested, but they still sat with their noses buried in books. Eventually, Longbottom joined them, begging for some help in Potions. Later came young Ginny Weasley with a blonde who looked around wide-eyed as if seeing the place for the first time.

About half an hour later, with a vein threatening to burst in his temple,Voldemort put the transfiguration text as calmly as he could down. Hermione, predictably, frowned.

"Harry, you know we have an important test."

Ron ignored her, as he put his own book down. His stomach rumbled.

"I'm hungry," he stated.

"Dinner's in an hour, Ron." said Hermione, eyes still on the book.

"Let's go down to the kitchen and beg the house-elves for something," he proposed, ignoring her.

Voldemort _never ever begged!_ And certainly not a _house-elf_!

"I'm not coming. Potions, y'know" said Neville.

"Me neither. Vector's being a git about those bloody magical progressions," muttered Ginny, furiously scribbling formulas on a torn piece of parchment.Voldemort tugged it from her, seeing about half of it wrong and the other half over-complicated.

"That's not right," he said without thinking,pointing to the second row. "You can't replace the variable with a difference of 'k'. It would be like mixing ... wild magic with potions." he concluded, squinting at her tiny script. Potter really was blind as a bat. "And here – if you write it that way, you complicate it too much. You'd need twelve different incantations and a power booster to use the potential spell. If you do it like" he crossed out the next three lines and rewrote it using a completely different type of simplification "this, you get the same result, only simpler and easier to use. The whole point in Arithmancy is to write down the composition of a spell, with the intent of examining, changing it, or to create a whole new spell entirely – and this as simply and as fast as possible." He handed her parchment with the corrections back.

Ginny, Ron and Neville gaped at him. Luna just looked at him. Hermione took the parchment herself. Examining it, her eyes widened ridiculously.

"Harry, this ... this is ... absolutely brilliant!" she cried shrilly, and Madam Pince shot them a glare. Yep, he knew her. Irma Pince had begun working here while he had been in his third year. "How did you figure this out? You aren't even in Arithmancy, for Merlin's sake!"

He froze. Potter hadn't told him that! However, a quick glance at his schedule, which was on the table, confirmed it. "I read about it in the summer" he lied smoothly, trying to cover his mistake up. He would have loved to obliviate them, but Dumbledore was too good of a Legilimens not to notice something like that. Moreover, the advanced version of the Obliviate, the Memory Erasure Curse required a highly complicated potion, which he couldn't acquire or make here; he had to remedy that.

"Was it in one of those books Dumbledore sent you, mate?" asked Ron, glancing at Ginny, Neville, and Luna, obviously questioning their fidelity. Idiot. If you are not sure of someone's trustworthiness, you _do not_ go blurting obvious secrets. Well, he did not complain. But the tidbit of information was interesting.

"Exactly" he said.

Hermione did not look convinced, though. "Are you sure? We had this exercise on the OWL exams as extra credit."

Tom pretended to look startled. "This exercise was explained in detail in the book"

"Wich book was that? I'd like to check it out." She was intelligent, a pity that she was a mudblood.

"I don't remember the title. Du- Moody sent it and said it was something new and not yet in the school library." He said Moody instead of Dumbledore because it would have been just too easy to check with the Headmaster. Of course, they could owl the old, retired Auror but the man would check with Harry Potter first.

"Moody sent you Arithmancy books? He really didn't seem the type," said Ginny.

"He didn't," agreed Hermione, watching him with narrowed eyes.

"Could we go eat something!" whined Ron from his right. Five pairs of eyes turned to stare at him.

Hermione commenced to reprimand him for not studying.Voldemort sighed inwardly in relief at her dropping the subject. Potter's brain was going to get him killed.

Some time later, as they made to leave, Luna pulled him aside.

"You really are a riddle, aren't you? Death flies a lot around here..." she trailed off dreamily, playing with a strand of her blond hair.Voldemort whirled shocked around, but she just smiled enigmatically and left, leaving him gaping like a goldfish in the middle of the library. A few stray students threw him odd looks.

"Harry, are you coming?"

* * *

Harry Potter, currently inhabiting the body of Voldemort, closed '_Poetry of Dark Curses of Soul and Blood_' with a resounding thud. Trust the Dark Wanker to choose the driest book for him to read! After dozing off three times and looking up _hundreds_ of misspelled Latin words (wich the charm couldn't translate for obvious reasons) he finally had enough. His stomach grumbled, but the stupid git didn't want to tell him how to call a house-elf, if he even had one. For all he knew, Voldemort could be keeping muggles as his slaves. It would certainly fit him. 

Better not dwell on that.

Harry stood up, hearing a satisfying crack from Voldemort's neck. Oh, how he would love to break it! Catching sight of the mirror (and asking himself for the umpteenth time why he was keeping a life-sized mirror in his _bedroom_), he saw that he was still in the dirty robes from yesterday. Deciding he didn't want to know how Voldemort smelled without a shower, he went to the bathroom. Of course, it had to be made of black marble, giving it a rather cold appearance. Grinning slightly, he took out the Dark Lord's wand from his pocket turning the black into a warm red and gold. Much more comfortable.

Resolutely not looking into the (what else?) life-sized mirror beside him (just how vain was Voldemort?), he disrobed, blushing vaguely at the fact that He-Who-Is-A-Vain-Idiot wore no underwear and hopped into the shower. He half expected the water to be ice-cold, but it was luke warm.

Half an hour and several sorting-through-shampoos (he had _five_ different conditioners, _seven _different shampoos and _several_ hair-fertilizers!) later, he was as clean as he could get, and with a convenient spell made his hair smell of roses, just out of spite. Out of the immense wardrobe, he chose a pair of plain black robes, wich he transfigured into red and gold ones. Ha.

Now it was time to interrogate Voldemort about the meeting he had to have with the Death Eaters – weird name for a troop who of insane criminals who wanted to cause destruction, death and general mayhem. Well, just showed what kind of master they had.

* * *

A/N: Well, since nothing is interesting in the former A/N I deleted it and I'll just say this chapter had far fewer inconsistencies the the former ones wipes sweat off forehead

EDITED 26.07.2005


	6. Sea of Darkness

_Disclaimer:_ this story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

* * *

_**This chapter is dedicated to the lovely Breese. Happy Birthday!

* * *

**_

**Play My Game**

_Chapter Five – Sea of Darkness

* * *

_

"Wormtail, stop right there!" Harry bellowed from one end of the grey corridor, to the resident rat (and the only one, as _dear _Nagini often complains – not that she helps the matter, seeing as as those would be her snack). Peter stiffened visibly and turned slowly around.

It was the third day of being in Voldemort's body, and they – or rather Voldemort – decided that it was time to alert the Death Eaters that he was _'fine'_. Personally, Harry thought his little minions would be better happier if he would just rot away. In any case, being each other wasn't pleasant. Voldemort insisted Harry learned to dress, act, hell, even _move_ like him. He was far from perfect, but they decided they would attribute any slip to post-ritual weakness. The dress choosing, though, had been an adventure in itself. Harry refused to wear blood red (even though it was a Gryffindor colour, it was _blood_ red) or Green and Silver. Finally, they had agreed on a black robe with silver trimming. Harry was satisfied to note that the combination made him look even paler and more emaciated than usual.

"Yes, Master?" His voice trembled, as if he was expecting the Cruciatus any minute now. Harry resisted the urge to do just that.

'_Walk slowly up to him. Or better yet, stroll,'_ he heard Voldemort's voice in his head.

'_I know. I'm not stupid.'_ He could_ feel_ Voldemort biting back a sarcastic comment.

Harry squared his shoulders and plastered a fake 'I-am-an-insane-Dark-Lord-and-want-to-torture-you-to-death' smile he hoped wasn't too cheerful, and _strutted _forward. Wormtail trembled expectedly,and gnawed on his lower lip. That was not exactly a pleasant sight, given the state of his teeth.

'_Are you contemplating _kissing_ Wormtail?'_ askedVoldemort amused.

'_I'd rather kiss Snape's arse, thank you very much.'_

'_Really, I'll kindly inform him once we've got out of his mess. He might just appreciate your ... services.'_

'_Get your mind out of the gutter, your pervert!'_

'You_ were the one who said you wanted to kiss his arse!'_

'_It was figure of speech! Of course, you in your _dark lordship glory_ would never have used such a _normal human_ thing!'_

'_Are you sure? He does have a veryfine arse, you should know. And he is a fabulous kisser.'_

Harry did not answer, but he was quite sure Voldemort could feel his disgust. _Quite_ clearly, he assured. The Dark Lord answered it with a wave of amusement and suddenly a picture appeared in Harry's mind: Snape spread-eagled on the floor, naked and quite aroused. The customary limp, greasy hair obscured his face.

Harry gagged and choked, willing the image out of his mind. Voldemort, the bloody bastard, was laughing. Harry tried to think of anything _but_ that, and sent the image of pink bunny-rabbits and flowers over the link, in return. Voldemort only laughed harder.

Wormtail was watching him partially concerned, though he had a glint of something in his eyes. _Probably hoping you'd have a fit and will soon _unfortunately_ kick the bucket_...

Trying very hard to ignore Voldemort, he levelled his best evil death glare at Wormtail, who promptly began to squirm. He scowled in distaste at the pathetic rat.

"Wormtail, shshow me your mark," he hissed imitating the Dark Lord.

"Y-yes, M-master, prompt-tly Master, im-m-mediately Master," Peter fumbled around on the oversized sleeve of his traditional black Death Eater robes with his silver hand. Of course, the sleeve was too much to lift with one single hand if you didn'traise it.

Harry rolled his eyes and brandished his wand with an exaggerated flourish that would have made Lockhart proud.

"Do you require help, Wormtail?" he asked, casually twirling the yew wand between his long, skeletal fingers. A strange satisfaction coursed through him when Wormtail squeaked terrified and practically ripped his sleeve off_. I only wanted to help him magic it away; if he wants to do it the hard way, it's not my fault_, Harry thought gleefully.

'_I'm not that sure you wouldn't manage the Cruciatus, _kitten_.'_

'_Considering that my existence may depend on it, I do hope I can, _Tom, _or are you having so much fun being a parasite in my body that you forgot that?_ _'_

'_Touche.'_

Harry gripped Wormtail's outstretched forearm roughly, and pressed the tip of Voldemort's wand against the Dark Mark. Concentrating on the Inner Circle, as Voldemort had told him to, Harry felt the dark power flow through him, his hand and his wand. It felt very good...

Wormtail yelped.

'_Enjoying the Dark Arts, are we, _kitten_?'_

And he did. He never expected it t feel so maddeningly _satisfying_.

Wormtail was whimpering.

Voldemort laughed even more.

It was addicting, overpowering, as if drowning in a sea of honey, filling his senses, filling him ... nothing mattered anymore...

Wormtail shrieked.

Voldemort stopped laughing.

'_Potter, Potter – Oh, for Salazar's Serpent! _Harry_! Get_ over _it!'_

Harry ignored the small, inconsequential voice in his head. It didn't matter. Wormtail screams were so musical, harmonious ... the small summon was not enough.

'_Stop, Potter! You don't have _control_!'_

Never enough. Harry drew back, a slow, deliberate, serpentine movement his body was so accustomed too. He wasn't aware that his eyes burned bright red, or that the corridor was humming with dark magic, only of the blazing need...

"_Crucio!_"

Wormtail creamed in pure agony, sliding to the floor. Harry held the curse, fascinated by the rhythmical spasms of the body, fuelled the pleas and screams, intoxicated by the power of being in control, by the knowledge that _he was the master_-

'_HARRY!'_

Suddenly, Harry jerked back, reeling in shock, pupils dilated. What happened?

Wormtail was lying motionless on the cold stone floor, robe half opened, blood pooling under him, out of his mouth and ears. His eyes were wide. His wrist lay draped acrosshis mouth.

'_Stupid child! Have you never _ever_ cast a dark spell before?'_

'_I ... no. NO! Oh Merlin! What was that!'_

'_Why did you think the dark arts are forbidden? Why do you think they cannot be used for the proverbial _good_? Because of a few stupid Ministry rules? Or maybe because they are _misunderstood_?'_

"Wormtail, get out of my sight!" he bellowed, ignoring him.

Wormtail didn't even twitch. He was most likely unconscious. Most likely. Harry was sure of this. He was.

"_Ennervate!_' Nothing. "_Ennervate!_ Wake up, you _thrice damned rat_! _Ennervate!_" he cried, half-horrified. Why wasn't he waking?

'_You held him under the Cruciatus for almost fifteen minutes! He's either insane or dead.' _Voldemort said flatly. _'Hmmm, he never was one that could withstand it long. At least we won't have to worry now about you not being able to cast it'_

Harry ran to Pettigrew's side, gripped his shoulders and shaking him for all it was worth. His left hand fell down from his mouth and Harry drew back revolted.

Pink flesh and red blood and white bone...

That was all there was left of the wrist. Wormtail had bitten it to lessen the pain; he had _shredded_ it to lessen the pain.

The blood under him hadn't come from his mouth, but from the arteries in his wrist.

'_See the true side of the Boy-Who-Lived. You are not much better than I am. Can you not feel the dark calling out to you? Once you have cast a Dark Curse once you will hunger to do it again. Again and again, until all that remains behind is an emotionless killer. Let the darkness devour you, if you desire! But you, unlike I, are not strong enough to control it.'_

Wormtail, Peter Pettigrew was dead.

'_You feel horrified of what you have done, horrified of the power you used, horrified as it has caused you pleasure that you still long to feel. You long to feel the dark safety, the sweet honey ... and you are afraid, afraid you may hurt your friends, afraid everyone will reject you. You are afraid to be alone, and you are afraid to accept its solace. Yesssss, I know what you are feeling _Harry_. I know because I went through the same thing. But I, unlike you, accepted and learned to control it.'_

He, _Harry_ had killed him. With Voldemort's hand.

'_Yes, I feel all this in you. What I do not feel in you though, is remorse. You are horrified and afraid of what you have done, but you do not feel remorse. You ashamed of the act itself, of the act of killing, but not of killing a person... or this particular person.'_

And he wasn't sorry to have gotten rid of the one who had betrayed his parents, the one who had brought Voldemort back and the reason Harry couldn't have lived with his Godfather instead of the Dursleys.

But still.

'_The Death Eaters must already be there. Clean up and go.'_

For once, Harry complied. He cast a Cleaning Charm to remove the blood from his robes and a Bubble Charm around Wormtail's corpse so the smell wouldn't spread. He shoved it aside as he walked past. A house-elf would get rid of it later.

Harry entered the Meeting Chamber, wich was adjacent to the Apparition Point Chamber (the only place in the whole Manor you could enter by means of either Portkey or Apparating), separated by a brief corridor, heavily warded with various Dark Mark Detection Spells (of Voldemort's own creation, of course). Anyone without the Dark Mark, besides Voldemort himself and anyone directly keyed to the wards, would be sent to a remote part of the dungeons where the Dark Lord kept Nagini's brood and food.

'_Well, the little ones need more substantial nourishment than those few small rats Nagini manages to find,'_ he had said as Harry was surveying the plans for the layout of the building. In turn, Harry had to tell him (or rather show him mentally) Grimmauld Place's map. Fair enough. The Order would be immensely satisfied to know about Voldemort's Manor, and since Grimmauld was – and still is – under the Fidelius, its design did not truly matter. Yet.

In any case, the Meeting Chamber was a large, elevated room with an arched ceiling. The windows were obscured and ancient mosaics adorned the otherwise grey walls, although they were only to be seen when the flickering torchlight reflected on a stray tile – when it was just eerie. Two doors led into the chamber, one of which was a secret passage, activated by pressing a certain body-part of a man in a mosaic that showed a nice little torture scene. Disgusting.

In the middle of the chamber was a raised dais with a grand throne on it, (obviously) meant to impose. The Death Eaters themselves, who had been talking in hushed voices, silenced immediately and gathered in a perfect half-circle around the throne when Harry sat down.

Simultaneously, they bowed and straightened.

It was just plain creepy. Each one of them, dressed in black hooded robes that blended perfectly with the semi-darkness around them and white masks looked like Death personified. Harry half expected them to pull out identical scythes.

He recognised Lucius Malfoy and Severus Snape in the lot. Besides Lucius Malfoy was a figure who had a distinctly softer jaw line and more feminine lips than the others had – most probably Bellatrix Lestrange. He suppressed the urge to curse her with the Cruciatus (but only because he was remembering what happened not five minutes ago). _Better be calm,_ he told himself_, you can slip poison into her drink later. _To Lucius' right was a free space where – Harry gulped inwardly – Wormtail should have stood.

'_Greet them and inform them that Wormtail tragically got lost in the dungeons.'_ Got lost in the dungeons, exactly.

Harry amused himself for a moment with the thought of greeting the Death Eaters with a 'Hi, guys. How are you?', but discarded the idea when he remembered that Voldemort's version of it, which he would use as a payback, would be Crucio-ing everyone ten feet radius.

"Good evening, my faithful," he smirked as sinisterly he could and looked around the circle, his gaze resting longer than necessary on Snape. Snape, for his credit, did not react. He deliberately shifted his gaze to Wormtail's empty spot. "Wormtail, alas, will not be joining us anymore henceforth. He tragically got lost in the dungeon"

"_Master, they smell afraid,"_ hissed the small snake Cheira from his wrist. Voldemort suggested bringing her with him since he did not know any Legilimency, while she could smell emotions in the very air.

'_Good. What now?'_

"Master," said Lucius Malfoy, bowing again. "If I am allowed to ask, what happened? We," he motioned around the circle "were profoundly concerned for your lordships welfare."

"_This human hisses fake."_

Harry let out a laugh, half hissing it in Parseltongue.

"If you say so, Lucius, then I might endower in believing you. The Ritual I have told you about failed, as your son ought to have already informed you of. However, it did not remain without fruits. As it is, I would have called you sooner, but I was ... indisposed" Harry retold the misdirection with a smoothness that came from exercising in front of a mirror.

"Master, if I may-"

"No, you may not."

Lucius stiffened shortly, but went back to his place.

"_Human angry, human wants to know. Stupid human."_

'_Did you tell the little lie?'_

'_Yes'_

'_Good, now ask for anything new.'_

'_How long does this meeting have to last?'_

Voldemort didn't answer him.

As it turned out, the Death Eaters were particularly talkative that evening and Harry couldn't resist casting the Cruciatus again. This time he managed to hold it for about half a minute before the Darkness threatened to overwhelm him. It had been enough, though. Bellatrix screams would be in his pleasant dreams for months to come yet.

Still, he wanted to cast it again, soon. It just felt ... well, you couldn't exactly call it _good_, but rather enjoyable. Voldemort was amused.

* * *

A/N: Well, I liked this chapter more than I liked the others, though it seems a bit rushed. The title is somewhat corny, but I couldn't resist. 

EDITED 26.7.2006


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